2023 12 CommonApp Practice first try

The sun was relentless that day, hanging high in the African sky and casting long, shimmering waves of heat over the landscape. I was in the Monduli District of Tanzania, known for its stunning beauty and harsh realities. Home to 30,000 Maasai, this land faced constant challenges from droughts and floods, exacerbated by deforestation. Despite receiving 25% more rainwater than the US, the region's water woes seemed insurmountable.

I had come here with a team to deploy water harvesting units, a project to alleviate the community's struggles. It was here that I met Joseph, a Maasai boy my age. His command of English was impressive, a skill he attributed to hours spent listening to the BBC on his solar-powered radio. Joseph and I quickly became friends, our conversations bridging the vast cultural gap between us.

One scorching afternoon, Joseph invited me to his home. He pointed to the horizon, saying it was “just over there.” Believing him, I agreed to the walk, not suspecting that "it is just over there" meant a five-hour walk under the direct sun. To them, these vast distances are minuscule compared to the daily walking for water that women and children endure daily. Joseph and I talked about everything from local customs to global politics as we walked. He wore shoes made from cut-up tires, contrasting with my hiking boots. And he spoke with such passion about world affairs that he easily could have rivaled any student back at my school in the US.

Seeing such a well-informed young man living in such stark conditions was startling. Despite the prevalence of technology, the women and children in his community still walked nine hours daily to fetch water. This juxtaposition struck a chord deep within me.

Back home, my world was vastly different. One of the core principles of my Sacred Heart education was “a social awareness that impels action.” Our curriculum deeply ingrained this philosophy, pushing us to use our skills and knowledge to contribute beyond our immediate surroundings. We used data science to identify biases in Oakland’s traffic stops and created applications to raise awareness about the Ukraine war. My school fostered a passion for integrating technology with social service, a passion that led me to the heart of the Maasai.

The contrast between my life and Joseph's was stark. Yet, it was also the source of my motivation. I wanted to use my technological fluency to give people like Joseph opportunities and resources to flourish. Over the past four years, our team has deployed four water harvesting units in Monduli. We also set up two local meteorological units to gather data, evaluated low-cost water filtration methods, and started using satellite imagery and machine learning to pinpoint where to deploy the following fifteen units.

As Joseph and I finally reached his home, his family welcomed me with open arms. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we discussed his life with his father and sibling. The stars emerged unimpeded by city lights, and I felt a deep connection and purpose. This was more than a project; it was a mission to bridge the gap between technology and those in need.

I left Monduli with a renewed commitment to my goals. I aspired to create a world where technology was a luxury for the privileged and a bridge to ensure equitable access to resources like water. Working with local Maasai leaders, Engineers Without Borders in Tel Aviv, and friends like Joseph, I knew we could make a significant impact.

The journey with Joseph under the scorching Tanzanian sun was more than a walk to his home. It was a path that led me to a deeper understanding of the power of technology and the importance of empathy and action. And as I continue my work, I carry the lessons from that walk with me, determined to build a better, more equitable world.